Unfortunately for him, that also meant that Father Huber did not see two other pairs of footprints in the snow.

*

The church of St Mary Magdalene was almost four hundred years old. With its onion dome and its ornate, gilt interior, full of statuary and images from the Gospels, it was typical of the older churches in this part of Austria, or the province of Ostmark as the country had been designated since the Anschluss three years earlier.

The first thing you came to, by the door, beneath a colourful wooden wall carving of the Virgin, was an old octagonal baptismal font, deep enough to immerse a sizeable child. Then, ranged along the nave, came the rows of wooden pews, until, at last, you approached the high altar. For all its quaint charm, it was a small, simple church, perfectly fitting the needs of this little country community.

Father Huber entered, stamping the snow from his boots and removing his woollen hat, before lighting candles by the door and switching off his flashlight. The church had not yet been electrified so the only light came through windows or from candle flames. In the soft warm glow, he made his way down the nave and halted before the crucifix, made the sign of the cross and knelt down to say a silent prayer, confessing his sins of the night, though in his heart he could not really believe his liaison with Trudchen was wrong. Yes, the Roman Church demanded chastity of its clergy. But that was a law made by men. How could love be a sin in the sight of God?

He heard a cough. His shoulders tensed; surely Frau Giesler the cleaner could not be here so early? He knew from the way she sometimes looked at him that she had her suspicions. He rose to his feet and turned around, his hands clasped to the cross he wore around his neck. No, it wasn’t Frau Giesler, but a man – someone he did not recognise. Someone small and – he hated himself for even thinking it – rather insignificant looking. A traveller, perhaps.

‘Grüss Gott. Can I help you, sir?’

‘Father Huber?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘My name is Herr Kalt, sir. Otto Kalt. I am a lawyer. Please forgive the ungodly hour of my arrival – but I have been travelling many hours from Bremen and decided to push on rather than stopping the night at a hotel.’

The priest did not like this one bit. The man might seem to be of no consequence, but appearances could be horribly deceptive. Peter Huber forced himself to adopt a welcoming smile and extended a hand.

‘And why, pray, would a lawyer wish to talk to a humble parish priest?’

Kalt took the hand and held it a few seconds without quite shaking it. His fingers were cold and limp.

‘Well, first of all, I can tell you it involves a great deal of money.’ He shivered. ‘Is there, perhaps, somewhere a little warmer we could talk?’